Page 43 of Not his Marchioness
“Oh? May I ask which books you have found most interesting?”
She wet her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Why did her curls insist on tumbling from her updo every single time? Turning, she walked back to the desk and picked up the volume she had been reading. Holding it to her chest, she smiled.
“Have you read any books of late?”
“Of late?” He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that I read poetry and such; she thought it would help refine me as a gentleman.” He chuckled. “As you can see, she failed.”
“It seems to me you are a gentleman, even if in name only,” she remarked.
He chuckled. “Well, I suspect the husbands of your new friends are dismayed at the fact that I am on the same rung as them. Or higher.”
Her face darkened. “They are not my friends. They are tools to help us achieve our goals. And I am not sorry to miss out on their company tonight.”
“Well, we agree on that account,” he said. “A rarity, indeed. Now, pray. The book?”
She twisted away from him and held the book in such a way as to conceal its title.
“Perhaps you can tell me,” she challenged with a smile. “So we can see just how much of a gentleman you are and how much of your mother’s teachings remain.”
“A game, Lady Ravenscar? You surprise me,” he said as thunder boomed outside again.
The fire in the grate danced rapidly from the air rushing down the chimney. It gave the room an eerie air. One could have called it romantic even. Although there was nothing romantic in the air between them, of course.
She took a deep breath, tasting the burning wood on her tongue.
Why had she called him back? She wasn’t certain. The storm had unsettled her; that was part of it. But there was more.
She simply could not put words to that strange feeling that had pushed her to call him back. Maybe it was that moment in the drawing room, when he’d placed his hand on her shoulder, that had thrown her entire being into such turmoil.
Did she care for him? No. Not at all.
He was a rake. He vexed her at every turn and took pleasure in it. And yet she had to confess, if only to herself, that she enjoyed their banter.
“Very well. I shall read, and you will tell me what it is I am reading.” She cleared her throat. “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.”
“Byron,” Rhys guessed, moving closer. “Hardly what I’d expect from a gently bred young lady looking to establish herself in Society.”
“I am still a woman of my own mind who enjoys rather scandalous books,” she said with a smirk. “But I confess, my passion for Byron had ebbed when he married that poor Annabelle Milbank. Still, I find myself inspired to re-read his works of late.”
“And what, pray tell, inspired you?” he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
Rhys, being Rhys, did not sit as a gentleman would. He had turned the chair backward, straddled the seat, and crossed his arms on the back.
The warm firelight filled the space behind him, and her mouth grew dry.
Why did he have to be so handsome?
“If you must know, Lady Woodhaven warned me to never involve Lord Byron in any of the activities pertaining to the school because his reputation would cast a shadow on it all. Having recently found myself in a similar position, I felt a kinship and picked up his work again. His and that of some other writers considered scandalous, which I used to favor but abandoned.”
He let out a chuckle. “Your reputation was hardly in danger of being as ruined as his. That would be a feat most difficult to achieve. I have been at it for years, and even I pale in comparison. The only one I can think of who could come close is…”
“Lord Emery,” she said at the same time he did.
They both chuckled.
“Great minds do think alike,” he quipped.
